


in that dry white ocean alone

by betweenish



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Galactic Idiot, Hurt/Comfort, I'm a darksider really I am, Post-Canon, Time Skips, can't fight it, can't hide it, how not to talk to girls, so deep in denial they're writing heiroglyphs, sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenish/pseuds/betweenish
Summary: Not all questions have answers; some...some do.





	in that dry white ocean alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KKetura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KKetura/gifts).



> Almost totally rewritten, hopefully for the better.

_Why is the Force connecting us?_

When first she faced him across the breadth of a galaxy and his murmured question fell between them, her own pounding blood had deafened her, the cold, frigid lash of water (her first rain!) turned violent and sour by the rising bitterness she could not quell. 

She tore into him with all her strength, then, consumed with grief for Han and rejection at Luke’s hands, raging at Kylo’s complicity in every wrong wrought by the First Order.

Rey examines those memories she plucked from him – as doggedly as any valuable bit of salvage – and finds the same faces. Betrayer. Betrayed. For one aching breath, reaching for him, battling at his hip, she hopes they may find common ground; but things go so, so wrong.

Later, in the time and space between the stars, she struggles to answer.

 

I.

 

The scene plays out the same, every time, for years. 

The fine hairs on the back of Rey’s neck prickle – the sensation of being watched (stalked), the tiny electrical alarm that ignites; no matter how far she runs, she can never be alone. It is a perversely uplifting fact.

A snap of the Force, and he looms, always frowning (even in his sleep), bearing down on her with the old, desperate determination flickering behind darkly sunken eyes. He doesn’t bother to shield the wounded craving, but it is sullen now – Rey has joined the legion of things he starves for and will never attain.

“Tell me where you are.” Never a request. 

Her chin tilts in subtle defiance, even as her lips quiver and tears sear her eyelids. The trackless desert inside her refuses to let them fall, now. She has wept for him enough. This dangerous dance, however, has evoked the carrion-eater at the core of her, greedy for scraps, even (and especially) from this singular man. “Don’t you ever get tired of this?” The Coruscant lilt of her voice highlights its waspish, exasperated, rasp. 

That expressive face broadcasts far too much before he averts his eyes, resolutely setting his feet. “I will find you.” 

Rey inclines her head in agreement. She does not ask why. She is no longer fool enough to pretend their destinies do not intertwine.

_Because we’re the same,_ she thinks. 

Here it deviates. Sometimes they fight; his livid screams make her irrationally certain he’ll bring the entire base running to her aid – but of course she’s the only one who can hear him. Sometimes he stares balefully, fingers twitching and then balling into fists as he resists reaching out. On occasion, he paces like a maddened rancor, tearing his hair. Her sorrow always threatens to overwhelm as the connection fades, until only an echo remains in the back of her mind. 

The same way, for years.

Luke’s kyber crystal, shattered in that match of wills and scooped up with a Force grab in her scramble for the lift, rests in a pouch at the head of her bunk. She cannot look at it yet; cannot bring herself to throw it out.

_Two sides of the same coin, – the dark and the bright._

 

II.

 

Rey spends many hours by Leia’s bedside in the medical bay. The general is failing, day by day; the effects of decompression cannot be wholly overcome, even by one of the strongest latent Force sensitives in the galaxy. Though the bulk of her responsibilities have been ceded to trustworthy delegates, age and worry are taking a huge toll that will eventually bring down even the indomitable Leia. 

Rey cocoons herself in denial, for now, unable to reach terms with this inevitability. That hungry hole inside her resonates constantly with her (his) losses; the family that never was, echoes of Han Solo’s gruff admiration, the shock she felt as Luke’s spirit passed into the Force, taking any potential with it. 

_Because she doesn’t have much longer._

Leia digs her thumbnail sharply into Rey’s wrist, sensing that she’s fallen into her own mind again. “Cut that out, I’m not dead yet.” All of her strength seems concentrated, now, in those once-capable hands.

The acerbic tone pulls a corner of Rey’s mouth up in a smirk, even as she yelps. “Not for lack of trying. Now whenever someone tells you to jump out an airlock, you can tell them you’ve been there, done that.”

Leia returns a knowing stare that has frozen many a diplomat in their tracks, only slightly spoiled by the smile she’s trying to suppress. “Not that my detractors ever stopped me from speaking my mind to start with. Oh, I do possess tact,” Rey snorts, but doesn’t interrupt. “I just choose not to employ it.”

Often they share a companionable silence; watching the holo newsfeed; Leia always has a device with her, keeping her finger on the pulse of life, even as it slips beyond her grasp. It is through this portal that they observe the changing shape of the galaxy, how the First Order has begun to replace the obvious brutal echoes of the Sith with actual political bids for legitimacy; infrastructure is laid, criminals routed. Perhaps most astonishing are the conditional pardons for members of the Resistance; if they cease covert activities, they are offered supervised positions in various capacities, which even Leia admits is a clever move. It removes opposition and adds to the talent pool in one fell swoop. It is also working disappointingly well, given recent history.

It is hard to say with confidence what has served as the catalyst for the shift, though Rey suspects it shares a root with her own rapidly evolving education. Leia has always left deep impressions on those who know her. 

Kylo’s emotions still seep in, furious and relentless across fathoms, unblunted by the passage of time. The only certainty is that he sleeps little, and eats less. He has grown lean, sallow. He never appears in public. 

She pretends she doesn’t know what drives him.

General Hux, for all his amoral, smarmy attitude, has warmed to his role as the face of the First Order, now that military might is the less visible consideration. Rey might be more than a little biased, though. Hux has made it his personal mission to capture her, stating that even an untrained Jedi is too dangerous to let slip a leash. He’s inconvenient, and she takes no small malicious glee in thwarting his plans for her.

When Rey is not traveling between outposts liberating the oppressed and carrying messages, she is arguing policy with Leia, or devouring any history text she can get her hands on. 

Leia never speaks of Kylo, never asks Rey to reattempt what she has failed. She tells, instead, of Alderaan, her mother Breha and gaggle of aunts; how the examples of Bail Organa and Padme Amidala inspired her to fight for justice. She talks of Han Solo and their improbable adventures, their epic battles. She spins lingering, soft tales of Ben, the baby and the boy, the prince and the padawan. She glosses over nothing, every error and failure and act of neglect laid out for both to absorb, and perhaps, one day, to heal. 

_Because she misses you. Because she still thinks I can save you. Because it’s not too late._

Leia never says it, because she doesn’t need to. Both women know deep down, in that strumming core of light that links them, that the balance will reassert itself in time. 

This is how the last princess of Alderaan and the last Jedi build their fragile hopes anew.

 

III.

 

It has been months since the Force bond last opened. Rey regrets the silence, but her heart quakes at what will come the next time they speak, her stoic spirit replaced by an uncharacteristic knot of cowardice.

She is twisting in her bunk, long past any chance of sleep. Her thoughts run endless races and she thinks she is hallucinating when she feels that near-forgotten tingle at the base of her spine. 

_Because we both want too much._

Rey holds her silence as he materializes. Kylo is perched on the edge of her bunk, staring at his hands. The miserable hunch of his shoulders and his general disarray – he is in his undertunic, sans boots, belt or gloves, bareheaded – instills a certainty that his eyes are swollen, reddened, though he keeps his head lowered against her scrutiny.

His mother is dead.

Forty standard days past, the princess, the general, the heart of the Resistance, became one with the Force. 

This is what Kylo Ren’s victory looks like, and Rey cannot bear it. 

Her son, abandoned and orphaned so many times, sits systems away, within arm’s reach.

They had never again attempted a gentle touch, since that ill-fated experimentation on Ahch-to. Rey makes a sudden decision and crawls out of her blankets in her rumpled sleeping shirt, creeping on her knees to curve herself against his bowed back. She snakes her arms around his broadness as best she can and rests her cheek on his unkempt curls. 

He is strung tight and tense, but relaxes by degrees as it becomes clear she is disinclined to budge; he can’t seem to bring himself to shake her off. His sharply reined emotions seep through the fringes of the bond, too erratic to truly contain. 

They stay like that for a long, long time.

_Because we’re so lonely._ They are united in grief, and it is acceptable.

 

IV.

 

It is not the first time they have met on the battlefield in the past few years (their targets sometimes overlap – on the last occasion, she knocked him out with a stun blast in her hurry to evade), but it is the first since she constructed her saberstaff. 

Nearly three years of research, weeks secretly scavenging Maz’s cluttered excuses for archives and months plumbing forgotten temples on remote worlds; this labor has resulted in a weapon utilizing the halves of Luke’s crystal; Anakin’s crystal. The weapon is beautifully balanced; ignited, sky blue ( _Skywalker blue_ ), a solid and comforting weight of history in her hand, warm and warning. 

This is what faces Kylo now, beyond his ravenous, radiant red. An unbroken woman, forged hard in the kiln of privation, hammered flexible by necessity, transforming damaged things into something new. 

_Because this should have been yours._ Even in her own mind, it’s unclear to what ‘this’ refers. 

She regards her opponent, casually assuming a low guard. She’s pleased, as usual, that he never acquired a new helmet. He looks healthier than last they fought, and she assesses his stamina as he takes the first attacks in wide, strong strokes balanced by Force pushes. Her lightsaber form is an amalgam, drawn from a wide array of sources; her own staff skills, holovids and rarely, a holochron, but the largest contributor by far is Kylo’s erstwhile training, plucked from his mind during the infancy of their bond. This means they’re eerily well matched.

She counters aggressive frontal assaults with twirling defense, wearing him down, faster and more agile. He is far more powerful, but she has crafted a life around not getting caught.

“You’ve improved, scavenger.” He grunts as she scores a glancing blow to his thigh, barely singing the skin, and pivots away. 

“I’ve been studying.” A beat later, “...Tyrant.”

“You’re going to give Hux an aneurysm, you know.” Kylo’s tone is faintly approving. 

“I notice you haven’t spaced him, yet.”

“Someone has to handle the paperwork.” Rey makes a disbelieving sound in her throat; she’s seen him at his desk, and knows the most feared man in the galaxy has beautiful penmanship. 

This civility ebbs away as intensity builds; he is hot-blooded, she is proud, and rarely does either have a chance to unleash their full potential. Rey pours on more speed, knowing she has to end this before the Knights become suspicious and shuttle down to find out what has delayed their Supreme Leader.

Kylo meets her attack, trading his sweeping strokes for short jabs and twists, trying to get a score on her for form’s sake. She is filled with a fierce gladness; adrenaline, the strength of youth, an unabashed pleasure in looking at him, flushed with exertion. His visceral enjoyment seeps unrestrained through his side of the bond.

_Because nothing feels as real as this._

It is this distraction, a momentary loss of footing, that answers it.

Rey slips, and blocks too slowly; instead of clashing against hers and sliding wide, his jagged blade plunges directly into her midsection. 

Kylo’s eyes go wide. 

He immediately thumbs it off, but of course he is too late. Rey turns to him with that poignantly familiar, searching stare (a habit picked up from Leia, after all their time spent together) as she carefully extinguishes her own blades. Then, she crumples in slow motion. The breath punches out of her and she struggles to draw another. 

Kylo clutches Rey to him, with a steady, incomprehensible stream of pleading. She gathers that he is begging her for something, but then pain strikes her like the sonic boom of an antique ship. Kylo sags to his knees, cradling her against his chest. 

“Ben, you dropped your lightsaber.” She says, frowning. 

Thinking is difficult, since she feels incredibly muddled and he has neglected his shields, letting panic and grief storm through the bond, unchecked. 

“Don’t, cyar’ika, you can’t die, you can’t leave me alone, not now.” He’s eased up his grip but is petting her hair and face with massive, infinitely gentle fingers, peppering her with kisses. 

She raises one hand to his freckled cheek, tracing his scar – _her scar_ – with a vague sense of satisfaction. The smear of blood that remains puzzles her. Her eyelids are heavy and her head is lolling weakly on her shoulders, and she distantly realizes shifting positions must have torn the cauterized flesh holding her life inside.

Rey chuckles – or the breathless equivalent – because the Jedi Killer, the Supreme Leader of the whole kriffing galaxy, is hugging her, murmuring endearments. 

He’s trembling.

Light is spilling from him.

It’s everything she wanted, everything she promised his mother and she will presently be too dead to deal with it.

No, light is spilling _into_ her. She chokes, screams wordlessly, too weak to even writhe against the tide of pain that swamps her. He has reached inside her with the Force, and yanks.

It is clumsy, unpracticed; he had no real patience or proficiency for Force healing in the time before, but desperation has driven him inside her head, trawling for the gentler arts. It is eternity, and burning, and far, far too much. 

_Because I’m your last chance._

It is enough.

 

V.

 

Rey creeps back to consciousness, resting her cheek on his shoulder as he carries her up the ramp of her sleek little shuttle. This again. Huh. “You healed me,” she accuses, tongue thick in her mouth.

“You’re starting a new temple.” He counters conversationally, somehow manages the launch protocols one-handed, sets the astromech to autopilot. 

She hasn’t the breath to retort; her attempt at dying has filled her mouth with sand. Ben is solicitous, pitifully contrite; he gives her sips of water until her thirst is slaked, then efficiently strips them both of their blood-soaked garments and squeezes into the sonic refresher. Rey is too sapped for modesty, her now-sealed wound far too sore for struggle. 

He’s carrying her to bed before she resumes the thread of conversation. “Not a temple. Not really.” More like a network of Force sensitives, spreading out to gather knowledge at local levels. Rey doubts organized religion is the answer; if no other lesson, Luke taught her that well.

Also, she’d rather die than allow the old power structures to carry out their plans for Force users. It’s time to try something different.

But then, Ben knows that. Their bond is crisp right now, edged bright and painful after his graceless floundering in her head. They speak aloud from habit, not need. 

He hums, propping her up on the bunk while he kneels, gently tugs a clean sleeping shift over her head. “Ben,” she prompts, his silence stretching too long, his attention too fixated on applying the bacta patch. 

“You and Poe tipped me off about that governor on Absanz and his slave trafficking.” His deflection is lame, but he finally looks her in the eye, achingly vulnerable. 

Maybe she can allow herself this moment. _This._

Rey relents, gentling her tone. “They were all children, and you have the power to fight against those abuses.” A grudging admission, but the experience of years has tempered both her hard edges and impossible hopes. _The balance is so much bigger, Ben._ Her fingers graze the shadows under his eyes, and he catches her hand up, kissing her fingertips.

“You Force choked me the last time I caught up to you on Bespin.” Now it is his turn to channel his mother, the almost-smile at the corner of his mouth.

Even as she smirks, a heavy surge of exhaustion drags Rey down, and she sways, leaning her forehead against his, closing her eyes. “Call it a preemptive strike for running me through. Now get up here so I can go to sleep.”

“You are so strange, Rey.” _That_ is strange – when was the last time he addressed her by name?

“As you say, your worshipfulness.” 

Ben laughs at her, as he folds his outsized frame into the bunk; or maybe it’s a sob. The adrenaline must be leaving him to crumble. Maybe she feels like punishing him a little – he did just kill her, after all – with the echo of his father. 

Maybe some things can’t be sweet without the bitter. Maybe that’s all right. 

She takes pity on him as he shudders; curls into the curve of his body, bracketed by arms and thighs and lips whispering into her hair. 

Maybe Rey does know the answer to that long-ago question.

_Because I’m yours._

“Stupid.” She mutters.


End file.
